


Still Standing

by tfm



Series: Standing [2]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-19
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:12:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tfm/pseuds/tfm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Rossi has never quite become accustomed to being the damsel in distress. A sticky situation has both him and Emily wondering if they've run out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Still Standing

_Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for_

** _Dag Hammarskjold_ **

**Part One**

It’s a Thursday morning, and David Rossi is in his kitchen making coffee. He isn’t alone.

Emily’s there with him, wearing those ridiculous pajamas, which only serve to make him want to push her up against the tabletop and rip them off. In fact, he’s fairly sure the only reason she wears them so often is because they turn him on so much. He’s considered investigating the possibility of something that shows a little more thigh, but it terrifies the hell out of him to think that there might actually be a market for such thing.

In any case, he’s already done enough on the seduction front for the meantime, as evidenced by the exhausted look in her eyes. Truth told, he’s feeling a little bit tired himself. He’s not as young as he used to be.

Her attitude at his place is something that’s getting closer and closer to comfort. The one – and only – time they’d spent the night at her apartment, three of her neighbors had taken it upon themselves to ensure that she wasn’t being murdered. At his house, at least, the neighbors are a little further away, and he’s lived there long enough for most of them to know that the screaming isn’t because he’s a closeted serial killer. Still, it had almost been worth it to see the look of disappointment on the face of one of her neighbors when she’d answered his frantic knocks in nothing more than a sheet.

‘Did you want to grab lunch with me today?’ he asks, wrapping his arms around her from behind as she tips a teaspoon of Splenda into her coffee. He hunches slightly, so that his head rests on her shoulder, and he can press his lips to her neck without too much difficulty.

‘I can’t,’ she says, and he’d like to imagine that it’s a mournful tone, but really, it just sounds like she’s tired. They’ve all been tired lately, even if they’re not willing to let it show. ‘I have a pile of consults up to here.’ She makes a gesture at chest height, and he takes the opportunity to let their fingers intertwine.

‘Dave,’ she says, with the slightest hint of amused impatience. ‘I can’t get my coffee now.’

‘You can’t take half an hour for lunch?’ he asks, ignoring her plight – she still has the other hand free after all.

‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s this guy at work that might get pretty jealous.’ She maneuvers herself to face him, leaving the coffee forgotten on the kitchen counter. Their lips catch in a slow, lingering kiss.

She sighs contentedly, her fingers interlocking behind his neck. ‘_Really_ jealous.’ They stand there in silence for a few moments, before she adds, ‘I love…this.’

It might have sounded like a sudden backpedal to anyone else, but David Rossi has a little experience with human behavior. Emily’s relationship experience hasn’t exactly been the most conventional. If she ever says _it_, she’ll either blurt it out and then run off before he has a chance to respond, or she’ll avoid saying it altogether, for fear of scaring him off.

He’s okay with that, though.  He doesn’t need her to say it.

He already knows.

*          *          *

They get in to work together, standing far enough apart that they’re not touching, but not so far apart that it looks suspicious. Emily peels off as she reaches her desk, brushing his fingers slightly in a farewell gesture.

Morgan, who’s sitting at his desk, clears his throat. She swears internally, because she hadn’t noticed him there, and now he’ll be nagging her all day.

‘What was that?’ he demands, no longer paying attention to the case file in his hand. Perhaps _that’s_ why office romances are so frowned upon. Because they distract colleagues with the possibility of juicy gossip.

‘What was what?’ she asks, cringing, because she’s not a good liar by any definition of the word. She can selectively tell the truth, when the occasion calls for it, and she can suppress her feelings, but outright lying is something that she’s never quite had the chance to perfect.

‘That,’ he insists. ‘You and Rossi.’

She rolls her eyes, laughing. ‘Didn’t you know? We’re having an illicit office affair, with whips and handcuffs and plenty of kinky sex. I think Rossi wants to have a threesome, if you were up for it.’

It makes him double-take, which had been the intention, because he isn’t so much worried about what she’s hiding as he is about getting the mental image out of his mind. ‘Fine,’ he shudders. ‘Don’t tell me. I’ll figure it out myself.’

She smiles, because it’s mostly true. There are definitely no plans for a threesome and they don’t use a whip, but the handcuffs have made a couple of appearances, and they’re not beyond kink. She feels a little tingly thinking about it, and makes a mental note to get the handcuffs out again tonight. That, of course, is based on the assumption that she’s going to his place again tonight, and she finds herself having a small-scale mental breakdown at the thought that their relationship has reached that point.

She rolls her eyes again, this time at herself.

_Great job compartmentalizing there, Prentiss_, she thinks. _Wonder how much work you’ll get done thinking about jumping Rossi’s bones all day._

In true BAU tradition, she doesn’t get much time to consider her possibilities, because five minutes later, they’ve got a case.

*          *          *

It’s a local one; two dead kids out of Arlington. Two kids in five days, which makes it a priority, and they’ve grabbed their bags, rushed to the elevators no sooner than JJ had concluded the briefing.

Rossi unlocks the doors with a short beep, watching as Emily slides into the passenger’s seat, her messenger bag landing to rest just in front of her feet. It’s Reid that gets in the back seat, a tangle of limbs, which Rossi is grateful for, because while he’s a genius, he can sometimes be a little oblivious to the social things. Things like the fact that two of his co-workers are sleeping together.

If he does know anything, he isn’t saying anything. He just flips open the file, and dives into it, the words absorbing themselves into that massive mind of his. Rossi gives a tiny shake of the head, sharing a small smile with Emily.

It’s a high urgency case, so the briefing hadn’t been much more than an information dump; the names of the boys in question, when they had been found, and the positioning of the bodies. Any discussion is left for the road.

They’re professionals; even if they’ve never seen this particular case before, they’ve seen ones like it in a dozen different iterations.

‘The boys were blindfolded, their bodies posed,’ says Reid just minutes later, and Rossi still finds some amount of astonishment in the fact that the kid can really absorb so much information so fast. ‘Indicates signs of remorse. There’s also some evidence to suggest that they were sexually abused by the unsub.’ There’s a brief moment of silence, because even though they _are_ professionals, it never – _never­ ­_– gets any easier. They just get better at hiding it.

By the end of the drive, they’ve got a few theories, a list of people to talk to, and a determination not to let anyone else die.

*          *          *

The atmosphere at the police station is grim. Everyone – including the team – is on edge; there’s a lot of pressure to catch his guy and make him pay. When it’s kids, it always seems to send everyone into emotional overdrive. Emily can’t help but feel that this is going to go very bad, very quickly, and when it does, they’re the ones that are going to be blamed.

It’s not because the local police are unreasonable, by any means. It’s because they’re tired, they’re frustrated, and they’re looking for someone to blame. And if the BAU doesn’t deliver the unsub before the next child dies, then it’s going to be them on the chopping block.

The detective who greets them is looking a little more tired, a little more frustrated than the rest. She’s in her early forties, and she introduces herself as Detective Georgia Lethem. Her voice is sharp, but Emily attributes that to the bodies of two young boys that are lying in the morgue.

The small area that’s cordoned off for the case is already in organized chaos. A trio of detectives pore over the strewn case files, empty coffee mugs and half eaten pastries accessorizing the table. Lethem gives a round of introductions, and there’s a flurry of movement as things are shifted to make way for the team. Lethem stands there silently, as if waiting for Hotch to dismiss her. It doesn’t happen. She gives a small smile, grateful that the FBI is not shutting her out of the investigation.

On Hotch’s request, the Detective gives a rundown of the situation; giving the details that hadn’t quite made it into the files.

‘The parents of both boys are acting…strangely,’ she tells them, her brow furrowing. ‘We’ve questioned them, but I think there are a few things that they’re still hiding.’

‘Could there be a connection between these boys, aside from the victimology?’ Morgan wonders aloud. ‘If the families know each other, then they could be keeping that quiet.’

‘We haven’t found any connections, but…’

She trails off, and Hotch nods in understanding. ‘We’ll have our analyst look into the families.’ He tips his head to Morgan, and the profiler pulls out his cell phone, dialing Garcia’s number and turning on speaker phone – out of habit, more than anything, Emily thinks.

‘Hey, baby girl, I got a favor to ask.’

‘_Does it involve whipped cream?_’

Lethem gives a sound that is halfway between a cough and a laugh. She raises an eyebrow at Morgan, who grins in reply.

‘I need you to find any connection between the families of the two victims. Anything they might be hiding from us,’ he says it with complete seriousness, because even after all the banter, all the laughs, there are still those two dead kids lying in the morgue.

‘_I’m on it, hot stuff,_’ she tells him, and there’s an undercurrent of somberness in her voice too; collecting information is one thing, but digging through the lives of people that have just lost their children is another.

‘We’ll still need to talk to the families,’ Hotch tells Lethem, and she nods, understanding. Trained behaviorists will pick up things that the detectives had not.

He splits them up then; he and JJ will talk to the families, Reid and Morgan will go to the morgue, and Emily finds herself being paired off with Rossi to visit the crime scenes. She’s not sure if she’s imagining the knowing look in Hotch’s eyes as he tells her this. She’s fairly sure she is, because if he’d known, he would have said something by know, and he certainly would not have been sending them out into the field together.

Emily feels a little guilty about that. She doesn’t like lying. In this case, it’s more withholding than lying, but it doesn’t preclude that nagging feeling of dishonesty. Whichever way she looks at it, she’s deceiving – _they’re _deceiving – the rest of the team. She can rationalize it as compartmentalization, but then having a relationship with a superior isn’t exactly the best way to keep personal and professional separate. Evidently though, she isn’t exactly keeping them as separate as she’d like, because the moment they split off from the rest of the team, Rossi asks her what’s wrong.

‘Nothing important,’ she tells him, and it’s not strictly a lie. Nothing _relevant _would probably be more accurate, because she’s kind of terrified to realize just how important this relationship actually is to her.

‘Emily…’ he starts, and she raises an eyebrow at him. He should know by now not to “Emily” her during work hours.

‘I’d rather this wait until we weren’t hunting down a child murderer,’ she says, with a little more brusqueness than she’d intended – it’s not _his_ fault, after all. They’d done this together. ‘I’m sorry, I just…It can wait.’

They drive to the first crime scene in relative silence; there’s some slight tension, but she wouldn’t go as far as calling it an uncomfortable silence. She keeps her head down, re-reading the case files.

The first crime scene is near a school; public enough that the body would be found, and yet private enough that it’s evident the unsub isn’t trying to taunt them. These killings aren’t for the benefit of the authorities, they’re for the unsub. Or for the victims, she reminds herself, the thought making her feel slightly nauseous.

They scan the scene, taking in the details. If they can determine _why_ the body had been left here, then they’ll have one more piece for the profiling puzzle.

‘It’s a nice place,’ Rossi comments. ‘Peaceful. Picturesque.’

‘You’re not looking for picnic hotspots, are you?’

He gives her a look, but doesn’t comment on her quip. ‘Our unsub treated the bodies with respect. They’re blindfolded, arms crossed over their chests. He doesn’t see this as murder.’

‘He’s laying them to rest,’ Emily concludes.

‘The question is,’ muses Rossi. ‘Why?’

*          *          *

The “why” is a question that they intend to spend the rest of the day in search of an answer to. Why these boys? Why had the unsub laid them to rest? Is there some connection between them?

They’re driving back to the police station when they get the call from Hotch. According to his parents, Michael Summers, their first victim, had been seeing the school counselor. If there’s something that might have caused the unsub to single the boy out, then the counselor could know. Hotch and JJ still have to interview the second victim’s parents, so it falls to Rossi and Prentiss to talk to the counselor.

A call to the school in question reveals that the counselor – Eric Briscoe – only works Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Rossi executes a rapid u-turn, and they’re immediately on their way to Briscoe’s apartment.

The counselor gives a slight double-take when he opens the door. He’s dressed as if ready to go out; shoes on, backpack slung over one shoulder. He’s tall, well built, and yet there’s still an air of meekness surrounding him. ‘Uh…hi?’ He seems a little confused, a little flustered at the presence of FBI agents on his doorstep.

‘Eric Briscoe? Agents Rossi and Prentiss, FBI,’ Rossi introduces them authoritatively.

Briscoe hesitates. ‘I…um…was just….Would you like to come in?’

‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions,’ Emily tells him in what she hopes is an assuring tone. He gives a tiny shrug, and steps backwards to let them in. It’s a small, simply furnished apartment that feels slightly off to Emily, though she can’t work out _why_. Why does seem to be the question of the day.

They sit together on the small two-seater, Briscoe taking to a straight-backed chair behind a desk. He turns the chair towards them, but lets his hand remain at the desk, drumming a beat against the wood.

‘This is about Michael Summers,’ Rossi starts, and there’s immediately a pained look on Briscoe’s face.

‘Poor kid,’ he says softly. ‘No-one deserves to go through that at such a young age.’

‘Did you know this boy?’ Emily asks, passing over the photo of their second victim, Timothy Ford.

‘No,’ Briscoe says softly, shaking his head. A little louder, he repeats, ‘No, I didn’t.’ He looks towards Rossi, and there’s something in his eye that Emily can’t quite place.

‘Michael was a good kid,’ he says. ‘He just had some…problems.’

‘What kind of problems?’ Rossi starts to ask, only his voice is drowned out by the sound of Emily’s phone ringing. She excuses herself, noting that Briscoe shifts uncomfortably as she gets up. He’s hiding something, she’s willing to bet.

‘Hey, Hotch,’ she greets the Unit Chief after glancing at the Caller I.D.

‘_Are you with Briscoe now?_’ he asks.

‘Yeah.’

‘_Timothy Ford’s family knows Briscoe. He used to live in the apartment across from theirs.’_

Shit.

She lets her gaze wander back towards Briscoe and Rossi, noticing Briscoe looking right back at her. She doesn’t need anything more than that. He definitely knows something. And he knows that she knows.

He moves a split second later, his hand going straight to his desk drawers. The element of surprise in his favor, his finger’s already on the trigger before her gun’s out of her holster. Rossi’s quick on the uptake, already on the move, but it’s not quick enough to stop that bullet from discharging.

She’s never been shot before. She’s been beaten up a couple of times, taken a few knocks to the head, and she’s gotten in the way of a knife once or twice, but she’s never been shot. She feels the slight stinging pain in her shoulder, and the world seems to turn just a little bit fuzzy.

She’s aware, but not really aware of Rossi calling her name. Of him grappling with Briscoe. Of her legs falling out from beneath her. Of the numbness that’s starting to ripple its way across her entire body. And then, a few seconds later, she’s not aware of anything at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Still Standing

_Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for_

** _Dag Hammarskjold_ **

**Part Two**

‘Emily!’

He sees the bullet hit her in slow motion, the look in her eyes, and the sight of her tumbling to the ground distracting him in his venture to take down Eric Briscoe. It takes everything he has in him to tear his attention away, and focus on the gun that’s about to be pointed towards himself. There’s no time to draw his own weapon, so he takes a leaf from Morgan’s book, and dive-tackles Briscoe to the ground, knocking the gun across the room in the process.

He’s not exactly a spring chicken anymore, and there’s a damn good reason why he usually leaves the tackling to Morgan. By the same token, he tries to distance himself from close combat, but this time, he’s not sure he has a choice. Both he and Emily will probably end up dead if he doesn’t win this fight.

Of course, Emily could end up dead anyway; he hadn’t had a chance to examine the bullet wound in detail, but she had gone down pretty quickly, and she isn’t moving now, so odds are it’s not just a graze.

The thought of losing her makes him sick to the stomach, encouraging him to put a little more power into the punch that he swings. The problem is, Eric Briscoe is about fifty pounds heavier, six inches taller, and twenty years younger than David Rossi.

He grunts as the retaliatory fist catches his jaw, sending a jarring wave of pain through his face. It hurts like hell, but he’s not sure if anything’s broken, and he isn’t going to stop to find out. He can’t afford to let his guard down. He gets in a few solid strikes, but it’s still not enough; Briscoe has training behind the muscle.

He’s suddenly aware of the fact that there’s something blocking his vision. Blood drops clinging to his eyelashes. If he’s bleeding this badly, then he figures adrenaline is the only thing keeping him on his feet. Adrenaline, and the motivation to make sure that no-one dies today. No-one except Briscoe, if it comes to that.

Of course, he’s worked the job long enough to know that no matter how hard you work, you’re not always going to come out on top. Bad things can happen that you can do absolutely nothing to stop. And even though he’s trying so _fucking _hard to stay awake, to keep fighting, he comes to the realization that there’s nothing he can do to win this one. It’s a hell of a hit to his pride.

He really doesn’t have the chance to think about it much further, though – the next blow sends him spiraling rapidly into unconsciousness.

*          *          *

The first thing he hears is the thud as the phone hits the ground. The line’s still open, though, which means the second thing he hears is the gunshot. The third thing he hears is Rossi calling Emily’s name.

In the passenger’s seat of the SUV, JJ’s eyes are wide with shock; he gathers his reaction to the series of events is playing out on his own facial expressions.

‘Call Garcia,’ he mouths, not wanting to speak over the sounds of fighting that he can now hear on the crackling phone line. He’s reminded of Colorado, of the Cyrus incident. He feels the same fear, the same underlying guilt. ‘Get her to record the call,’ he says, out loud. While he wants to stay on the line, to determine the fate of his agents, he needs to get to Briscoe’s apartment, and he can’t listen and drive at the same time.

Spinning the wheel, he does a quick calculation in his head. They’re fifteen minutes away from Briscoe’s apartment, less if he flips the sirens on, which he does. JJ calls for an ambulance and police response anyway; as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he knows that Eric Briscoe’s apartment is going to be a crime scene.

They reach the apartment building before the police, but Hotch isn’t going to hang around waiting. They strap on their vests, and make their way up to the sixth floor.

There’s a concerned looking middle-aged woman standing near the door of Briscoe’s apartment. She gives a sound of relief as she notices the two FBI agents approaching.

‘Oh, thank God,’ she says. ‘There was a gunshot, and then Eric…’

‘What did he do?’ asks Hotch sharply.

She chokes back a slight sob. ‘I came rushing out to see what the fuss was, and Eric…he was standing there, waving a gun around. I just…I froze. Then he left – he took the man with him.’

‘The man?’ That can only mean Rossi, but Hotch has to be sure.

‘He had an unconscious man, slung over his shoulder…’ She gestures back to the apartment. ‘I didn’t want to go inside, in case I disturbed the scene.’

They don’t wait for any further explanations. Weapons drawn – because the neighbor could be wrong – they edge towards the door. It’s unlocked. He pushes it open, rounding the corner with his gun taking the lead.

The first thing he sees is Emily.

He darts his eyes across the apartment, noting the chaotic mess of broken furniture and homewares. He doesn’t let his gaze linger long, though. What he needs to be worrying about is lying on the floor, blood slowly spreading.

He shrugs his jacket off, rolling it into a ball and pressing it to the wound. It’s a shoulder wound – not the worst he’s seen, but it’s no cakewalk either.

‘Rossi’s not here,’ JJ announces, eyes staring at Emily’s still form. It’s only then that he realizes that the media liaison had checked the rest of the apartment while he tended to the bullet wound. ‘How is she?’

On face value, it looks bad; she isn’t responding, and her face is a chalk white. The pulse is steady, though, and there’s not as much blood as he had first thought. If the ambulance gets here soon, she should survive.

When the ambulance does get there, he tells JJ to accompany it to the hospital. While it’s true they need all hands on deck, he doesn’t feel entirely comfortable in abandoning an agent like this; JJ will stick around at the hospital for a while to make sure things run smoothly, but will rejoin them at the earliest possible convenience.

It’s another twenty minutes before Morgan and Reid get there, Reid looking as though he’s slightly out of breath. Their concerned is mirrored, though, and they don’t waste time before getting to work.

‘This is way off profile,’ Morgan comments, staring at the small puddle of blood that pools ominously next to a broken chair. ‘This guy killed two kids – why would he want to kidnap a federal agent?’

‘And why Rossi?’ interjects Reid. ‘Emily’s arguably easier to manage, especially with a gunshot wound.’ His voice softens a little at the end, the need for exposition outweigh by the concern for his colleagues.

‘It’s not off profile,’ Hotch concludes. ‘The profile is incomplete. We need to go over every detail of Briscoe’s life. Find out why he killed those boys, and why he would want to take Rossi.’ “And what he’s planning to _do_ to Rossi,” are the words left unsaid.

*          *          *

An hour later, they’ve congregated back at the police station, what’s left of the BAU standing in a haphazard semi-circle around the table. Detective Lethem gives Hotch a sympathetic smile. His shirt is still stained with Emily’s blood, but he doesn’t have the time to clean himself up properly. There are bigger things at stake. She’s in surgery, JJ had told them – no complications as yet, but they’ll know more later. There’s nothing they can do on that front – it’s Rossi they need to start worrying about. Hotch knows for a fact, though, that Emily’s condition will be nagging in the back of everyone’s mind for a little while longer at least.

Right now, though, they need to rework the profile based on what they know about Eric Briscoe. Garcia’s on the laptop, her voice tinged with concern. She’s speaking a little faster than usual, her voice a little higher. The pixilated image on the screen shows her red eyes, still wet with tears.

‘_Eric Briscoe was born Eric Roberts, 8th of September 1976. He lived with his biological father until he was twelve, at which point he was put into foster care after it became apparent that his father was abusing him._’

Hotch tightens slightly, and he notices Morgan doing the same.

‘Dropped out of his Bachelor of Psychology degree in ’96, but the school hired him anyway – partly because the former counselor recommended him. Employment records also show that he’s been volunteering at a local youth center for the past three years.’

Morgan’s infuriation becomes noticeably visible then. ‘Those kids trusted him, and he betrayed them,’ he says angrily.

‘_Aye, there’s the rub,_’ Garcia says woefully. ‘_At both the school, and the youth center, Briscoe is a model employee. No complaints of harassment, no otherwise suspicious behavior._’

‘Just because no-one notices it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening,’ argues Morgan, and there’s an angry fire in his eyes. There’s no noise over the speakers, and it’s a penetrating silence. Garcia has an expression of stunned hurt. Their friendship brings some amount of light to the darkest of situations; when they argue like Hotch remembers just how hopeless things really are.

‘What did the coroner say?’ Hotch interrupts, hoping to steer the conversation away from a trigger issue. Unfortunately, it’s such a high-stress situation that everything is a trigger issue.

‘The boys were killed using a combination of sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride – the sodium thiopental is a barbiturate that renders the victim unconscious, the pancuronium acts as a muscle relaxant, and the potassium chloride causes the heart to stop. This combination is also used in lethal injections.’

‘_He’s not planning on doing that to Rossi, is he?_’ asks Garcia fearfully.

Hotch shakes his head. ‘We don’t think so. And he didn’t have time to inject Emily with anything, but the doctors are running a blood test anyway.’

‘So, what?’ frowns JJ. ‘He’s _executing_ them? That doesn’t fit with everything else we’ve seen.’

It’s not just for executions. It can be used for euthanasia as well,’ Reid tells her.

‘He’s putting them out of their misery,’ frowns Hotch. ‘The question is, what misery?’

Reid gives an excited look. ‘I think I have the answer to that.’ He pulls a file from his messenger bag, flipping to the autopsy report. ‘We assumed that our unsub had been sexually abusing these boys. Now that would make sense with Briscoe’s history of abuse, but what if…what if he wasn’t abusing them – what if he was killing them to save them _from_ abuse?’

‘The families _were_ hiding something,’ Lethem points out. ‘It could be that the boys were being abused. No doctor’s records of it though.’

‘But Michael Summers was seeing the school counselor for a reason,’ says JJ.

‘But then why take Rossi?’ Morgan asks. There’s still a little bit of anger in his voice, but it’s been toned somewhat. This isn’t exactly the easiest of conversation topics for the younger profiler.

Hotch has a brainwave. ‘Garcia, can you find a picture of Briscoe’s father?’

He hears the faintly distorted sound of keys tapping, sees her fingers moving quickly. ‘_I most certainly – Oh God._’

‘What is it?’ JJ asks, leaning in towards the laptop.

‘_Hang on – sending now._’

The image pops up on screen, and Hotch finds his heart sinking. Brian Roberts has dark, slicked back hair, a well-trimmed beard. A slightly smug expression. He bears a passing resemblance to a certain veteran profiler.

‘He sees Rossi as his father,’ Reid says, a little shakily, though everyone already knows this. ‘He wants to get revenge at the person that abused him.’

Hotch tries not to let the fear edge its way into his eyes. This has the potential to end very, very badly.


	3. Chapter 3

Still Standing

_Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for_

** _Dag Hammarskjold_ **

**Part Three**

He wakes up with her name on his lips, only she isn’t with him. He remembers Briscoe, and the apartment, and the fight, but most of all, he remembers the bullet.

‘I didn’t want to hurt her,’ a voice says angrily, and it’s only then that he realizes that he must have said something out loud. ‘She did nothing wrong. You’re the one that deserves to die.’

Rossi doesn’t like the use of the word “die” there and he tries to sit up, but realizes that his movement is restricted by the ropes that bind his wrists together. There’s nothing else holding him back, but he figures that there’s no way he’s going to last another round with Briscoe.

‘I’m pretty sure _shooting_ her could have been unavoidable!’ He puts on his sarcastic tone, even though he’s falling apart inside at the thought that she could be dead.

‘You shut up,’ Briscoe yells, lashing out with his fist. ‘You don’t get to talk. You don’t get to spread your poison.’ Rossi tastes the blood in his mouth then, feels a tooth that’s fallen loose slipping down his throat. He coughs, trying to spit it out, resulting in a splatter of blood and saliva over the concreted floor.

He lets the profiler in him take over, which isn’t really much of an effort because he’s been at this so long there’s little left that isn’t profiler.

He’s in a basement of some variety – dark, windowless. He can’t tell what time it is, but his gut says that it’s probably night-time, or at the very least, late afternoon. This means that the team has already found Emily by now, or – he feels a jolt – they’ve found her body.

‘I don’t get to spread _my_ poison?’ he asks, with a tone of disbelief. ‘I’m not the one that killed two boys, Eric. You did that.’

‘I was saving them,’ he mutters. ‘Their fathers…I was _saving _them,’ he reiterates.

‘So what, you think _killing _them is tantamount to making things better? You’re a counselor. You’re supposed to _counsel_ people, not kill them to get rid of their problems.’

 

‘You don’t know what it’s like.’ He’s yelling now, and it’s an angry yell as much as it is a piteous one. ‘He would…he would come into my room at night, and he’d tell me that everything was going to be okay. But it wasn’t okay. He said it was normal. But it wasn’t normal. Was it?’

He doesn’t wait for an answer, instead, hitting Rossi again. It hurts like hell, and he’s fairly sure when – _if?_ – he gets out of this, bruising is going to be the least of his problems. There are definitely some broken bones in there somewhere, and the profile tells him that Briscoe will problem move towards more debilitating methods soon enough. He’s been a profiler for long enough to know that it’s not the most hopeful situation for him to be in. But then, he’s also been a profiler long enough that he can work Briscoe in the possibility of getting himself out alive.

None of that changes the fact that Emily could be dead. Given half a chance, he thinks he could probably take down Briscoe for that alone, but he’s as sore as hell, and he’s losing blood from half a dozen places, neither of which bode well for using physical force as an escape. He trusts the team to find him, but he’d much prefer not having to go through torture if he doesn’t have to.

And if there’s one thing that David Rossi is good at, it’s talking.

*          *          *

The world is a mixture of blurred colors and darkness.

At first it had been blurred colors and pain. Then the darkness had come around for a while, and she remembers the sound of panicked voices. They’d been blurred too, as if they were coming to her from across some kind of barrier, from another world. And they had been, in a way. They’d been coming to her from the world of the living. And she was slowly making her way to the world of the dead.

She’s caught between the two now, not fully committed to either state. She has flashes of reality, and flashes of dreams – of nightmares, would be more accurate, because for a long time now, she’s only ever really had nightmares. It’s a state of normality.

‘_…surgery…successful…sedated._’

‘_…might want to take a look at this_.’

‘_…schedule an…need to see if…call her…_’

There are two people standing by her bed, but she can’t really comprehend what they’re saying. Their words come in snatches. Tiny segments of full sentences. Even if she had full cognitive capacity, it wouldn’t be enough to know what’s going on.

She closes her eyes, and then opens them again, and this time, she feels a little more aware of what’s going on around her. Her arm is numb now, with a little bit of throbbing. She’s in a hospital, though – that much she can tell – and there’s a doctor standing at her side. She thinks it’s a doctor, at least. He’s wearing a white coat.

‘My name is Doctor Bishop. Can you remember _your_ name?’ he asks her; it takes a couple of moments to get her lips working, but she manages to answer his question. He nods with approval.

‘Do you remember what happened?’

…what happened?

She remembers the case, the interview, Briscoe, Rossi.

Rossi.

Rossi had been there.

She tries to pull herself up to a seated position, whilst simultaneously asking the doctor for news of Rossi’s condition. The venture had had a more successful outcome in her head, however. She finds herself falling back into the pillow, gritting in pain. The sedative is wearing off.

‘Take a deep breath, Agent Prentiss. We’re going to take you for an ultrasound, now.’

She’s painfully aware of the fact that he’s completely avoided answering her questions about Rossi, and desperately wants to reach up and grab him by that white coat until he answers her questions, but she doesn’t.

‘An ultrasound? Were there complications with the surgery?’

He looks slightly taken aback for a couple of seconds, but it’s minor. The kind of thing someone who isn’t trained in the art of profiling wouldn’t really notice, even if that particular training doesn’t take into account hospitalization.

‘No, complications, Agent Prentiss. But there is something else.’

Neither of them says anything for a couple of seconds, but those couple of seconds feel like the longest in Emily’s life.

‘You’re pregnant, Agent Prentiss.’

It’s a world of darkness, a world of blurring colors for a moment, but she regains control of herself, and remembers to breathe again.

‘I…is it? Did I?’ She can’t get a full sentence out; words are failing her. It’d be one thing to have lost Rossi, but to lose a child again as well? A child she hadn’t even known she’d had?

She doesn’t think she could survive that.

‘We received the results of your blood test while you were in surgery, so we’re not sure as to the health of the fetus. Hence, the ultrasound.’

She nods, feeling as though the numbness is overtaking her body again. It’s a psychosomatic reaction to her sudden terror. It’s everything she’s ever wanted, but the timing completely _sucks_. She feels a tear at the edge of her eye, compartmentalization skills shot down by the pain, and by the sheer overwhelming nature of the situation.

‘We’ve called your SAC, and he should be here shortly,’ is the last thing he tells her before she’s wheeled off for the ultrasound.

*          *          *

Hotch hangs up the phone, feeling slightly relieved at the news that Emily is out of surgery. Knowing that she’s alive, they’ll have one less dark cloud hanging over their heads, but aside from that, they’ll also have a witness. Someone that can give an insight into Eric Briscoe’s mental state at the moment of his breakdown.

That is, of course, assuming he had broken down. For all they know, this behavior could be something else entirely, but they won’t know until they talk to Emily.

He instructs Morgan and Reid to stay behind and work on the profile, while he and JJ speak to Emily at the hospital.

The scene they find isn’t quite what they had been expecting. There’s a nurse checking Emily’s blood pressure, and it’s clear that she’s been crying. She tightens noticeably as they walk in, her eyes not leaving Hotch’s. She may not have been told about Rossi’s disappearance, but Hotch is sure that she has probably already figured things out.

‘Hey.’ JJ takes a seat beside the bed, laying a hand on her friend’s uninjured arm. ‘How’re you feeling?’

Emily shakes her head slightly, ignoring the question. ‘What did he do to Rossi?’ she asks, voice fearful. ‘No-one will tell me.’ She sounds so lost, and Hotch knows in that moment that there’s something going on that he isn’t privy to. What it is, he’s not sure, and he’s definitely not going to go around asking now.

‘We’re still looking for them,’ Hotch says firmly. It’s not a definitive answer, but it’s the best he has right now. Emily nods, choking back a slight sob. ‘Can you tell me what you remember?’

She shakes her head softly. ‘No…I mean…yes. I remember everything, but he didn’t say anything…We got there, knocked. He was just leaving as we got there. We started questioning him…He said “No-one deserves to go through that at such a young age.”’

‘We spoke to the boys’ parents,’ JJ says softly. ‘Michael Summers was being molested by his father. Timothy Ford, by an uncle.’

Emily closes her eyes. ‘God,’ she whispers. ‘He didn’t seem…He was scared. I was on the phone with you, and he knew, but he wasn’t angry. He was scared.’

‘Then he shot you?’

She nods. ‘They took me for an ultrasound,’ she says; it’s non-sequitur, but neither Hotch nor JJ interrupt. ‘I don’t know if I can do this without him.’

And with just those few words, Hotch knows exactly what’s going on, and why it’s more important than ever that they get David Rossi back alive.

*          *          *

They return to the police station with an air of sobriety lingering. JJ passes on the little information Emily had given them, leaving out the revelation of matters that are less than case-related. Apparently, though, that’s good enough for Reid.

‘He probably had another victim slated for today,’ the genius suggests, after JJ notes that Briscoe had been leaving the apartment as Rossi and Prentiss had arrived. ‘The first two victims were killed on his days off as well.’

‘We couldn’t find any lists in his apartment,’ points out Morgan. ‘If he’s got someone, then it isn’t written down.’

‘But he would need somewhere to take them. Not the apartment – somewhere he can kill them in peace.’

‘A house?’ suggests JJ. ‘It’s safe – a kid wouldn’t think twice about going to a house.’

‘A kid being molested might feel too untrustworthy of authority figures to go to a house alone with one,’ Morgan says, his voice a little stiff all of a sudden.

‘We need to run every place associated with Briscoe down,’ says Hotch. ‘Narrow it down to somewhere where he can kill two boys, and imprison a federal agent without the neighbors getting suspicious.’

For ten minutes, the only sound aside from fingers striking keys, and the occasional profile input, is the sound of breathing. It’s almost frantic breathing; the situation is so dire it’s hard to remain calm, even with the Zen that a lot of them have built up about some things.

And then the breathing seems to stop altogether as Garcia says, ‘I’ve got something.’


	4. Chapter 4

Still Standing

_Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for_

** _Dag Hammarskjold_ **

Part Four

‘You think this is going to do anything?’ he asks, through broken teeth. It hurts to talk, but then, it hurts to do anything. He allows the smallest part of his mind to look forward to his escape from this unsub, to finding Emily and just holding her. He can’t afford to think that he might not make it out, or that she might be dead. ‘I’m not the murderer, here, Eric.’

‘You’ll hurt them!’ Briscoe says, angrily, but he doesn’t lash out, which is something.

‘Hurt who, Eric? Hurt my children? I’ve been married three times, but I don’t have any kids. I don’t have anyone to hurt.’

‘That won’t stop you,’ he seethes. ‘My father…A monster.’

‘What did he do, Eric?’ Rossi presses, an act which only earns him another kick to the gut. He feels a rib crack, and it becomes just that little bit harder to breathe. ‘What did your father do to you that you can’t see past?’

He’s already figured it out, from the ambiguous declaration from Briscoe not long before. But he doesn’t want ambiguity. He needs Briscoe to admit to his past, so he can move past it. This dark, claustrophobic cell isn’t the ideal place for an intervention, but they won’t be getting a Freud couch anytime soon.

‘He…_hurt_ me,’ says Briscoe, and even in the darkness, Rossi can tell that the man is choking back tears. ‘The same way those boys’ fathers hurt them. He would hold me down, and take off my pants, and he would…he would force himself on me.’

‘And he was all you had, wasn’t he? There was no-one else to tell you that it was wrong, that it wasn’t normal. You had to figure it out for yourself.’

There was silence for a few moments, and then Briscoe spoke. ‘Afterwards, he would ruffle my hair, and call me “sport,” and then we’d always go out for pizza the next night. Like it was some kind of reward for not telling.’

‘Who called it in?’

‘A teacher. She saw the bruises. Saw the way I “shied away from any male authority figure.”’ There’s another long silence, during which Rossi notes that he’s making progress.

‘Michael Summers and Timothy Ford; they had the support network you didn’t.’

Briscoe says nothing.

‘You could have called Social Services. Those boys didn’t have to die, Eric.’ He’s speaking with a little more intensity now. Putting the pressure on.

‘Their lives were already ruined,’ Briscoe yells, and he does break, but not in the way that Rossi had intended. The profiler feels every blow at first, but then his body starts to numb, and he instead feels dull thumps against his already tenderized skin.

Briscoe stops.

On the edge of unconsciousness, Rossi lets their eyes lock. ‘Who’s the monster now, Eric?’ he says, before passing out.

*          *          *

They have an address.

It’s one of the many residences that Eric Briscoe had lived in during his childhood, both under the care of his father, and as a foster child. The house in question had belonged to Briscoe’s grandmother, and had been left to Briscoe upon her death. Due to the amount of name changing and paperwork, the residence had fallen through the cracks on their first search.

The house isn’t that far from where the boys’ bodies had been dumped. Not far from Briscoe’s apartment. If anywhere, this is the house where he had administered the shots that sent Michael Summers and Timothy Ford to their deaths.

They’re all on edge as they strap on their Kevlar. An agent in danger always throws them for a loop. To have it be Rossi just seems foreign. He’s always been the one that remains curiously out of danger, no matter how often every other member of the team gets shot at, or kidnapped, or held hostage. It’s one of those things they joke about sometimes, when they’re all trying so hard not to think of how serious the situation is.

They’re not laughing now.

Briscoe’s had Rossi for several hours now, during which time he could have done anything. Thanks to the profiler’s resemblance to Briscoe’s father, they’re assuming that this “anything” wouldn’t exactly have been a tea party.

Hotch keeps his eyes straight ahead as he drives. He doesn’t need Reid to tell him the statistics. He’s lost team members before – not always to death, but then, they’ve always walked that fine line. He’d lost Elle, almost lost Reid. Lost Gideon. Lost Kate. Haley and Jack fall into a different category, but he still can’t help but think that he’s lost them too.

They have the house surrounded within minutes of getting there. If Briscoe’s inside – with or without Rossi – there’s no way he’s escaping by conventional means. There’s a chance he might take death over imprisonment, but that’s another kind of escape, one that Hotch isn’t about to facilitate.

They bust the door down, half the S.W.A.T team taking the top floor, the other half taking the ground. It’s Morgan that finds the door to the basement. He calls Hotch over, and they both stare at it for a few seconds, before Hotch gives a slight nod.

Morgan steps forward, and kicks the door in.

There’s not much light down there, but there’s enough to see the shadowy figure standing over an unmoving body. The shadowy figure is Briscoe, Hotch notes, as his eyes adjust to the light.

‘Eric Briscoe,’ he says, stepping forward. ‘Drop the gun.’ There’s a gun in Briscoe’s hand – it’s either the gun he shot Emily with, or it’s Rossi’s gun.

‘Is it true?’ the figure asks. ‘Am I really a monster?’

Hotch doesn’t answer – not because he doesn’t have the answer, but because he doesn’t have time to say it. Briscoe is already swinging the weapon towards him. He squeezes the trigger once, and hears Morgan doing the same beside him. It’s not the desired outcome – he much would have preferred a death-free takedown – but he puts the life of his team above the life of an unsub.

He goes straight for Rossi, letting Morgan deal with Briscoe. There’s a pulse, but to say the veteran profiler looks like hell is an understatement. His face is marred with bloody cuts and bruises; both his eyes look like they’re swollen shut.

‘Get the paramedics down here,’ he calls out, vaguely aware of the slightly panicked sound in his voice. They’d arranged for the ambulance to follow them, knowing that it would be more likely than not that Rossi would be in a bad state. The body moves beneath his touch.

‘Hotch?’ Rossi groans, his voice slurred. ‘’zat you?’ There’s blood coming from his mouth, Hotch notices.

‘It’s okay, Dave,’ he says. ‘We’ve got you.’

‘Eh-’ Rossi coughs, letting out more blood. ‘Emily?’

‘She’s alive,’ he says, Rossi’s words confirming his suspicions about the relationship between the two profilers. As if that’s the only thing he needs to hear, Rossi promptly passes out again, and Hotch steps back to let the paramedics do their work.

*          *          *

Emily can’t sleep.

She’s worried about so many things – about Dave, about the baby. Her mind is moving at a hundred miles a minute. She’s exhausted, and yet it’s as though her body and her mind are intent on keeping her awake.

Of course, she’s grateful for that when JJ shows up.

There’s a look of concern on the media liaison’s face. Emily’s profiling skills kick in immediately, noting that it’s not sorrow, which means he’s still alive, but that doesn’t stop her breathing from speeding up just that little bit.

‘JJ…’ she says, leaving her plea unsaid. JJ knows not to draw this out too long, or to sugarcoat it.

‘He took a few blows,’ she reveals, ‘A few broken bones, a lot of bruising. But there’s no lasting damage. The nurse is getting a wheelchair.’

‘I can see him?’ she chokes out, almost in disbelief. The team knows her all too well. She hadn’t even asked, and if the request had been denied, she’s not so sure she would have been beyond begging. To know that she doesn’t even have to is like music to her ears.

He’s unconscious when she gets there, and according to the doctor, he’ll probably be out for a little while longer. His wounds have been stitched up, but he still looks like hell, and the first thing she does is reach for his hand with her good one.

The sling makes it a little awkward, but she needs the contact. She needs to know that he’s still alive.

‘Briscoe?’ she asks Hotch softly, the Unit Chief standing on the other side of the bed, as if guarding them.

‘He’s dead,’ he says shortly, and she knows there’s more to it, but she isn’t going to press him for details. Right now, she’s just glad that Rossi – Dave – is alive.

‘I want to stay,’ she says firmly, not about to take no for an answer.

She falls asleep holding his hand.

*          *          *

She wakes up a couple of hours later, when he’s stirring. Their hands are still intertwined, but her other shoulder is throbbing, so she pulls away, feeling the loss of contact.

‘Em?’ he mumbles, the drugs in his system evident from the fuzziness of his tone.

‘I’m here,’ she says, the exhaustion and the pain shining through. She’s grateful that no-one had moved her, but the consequence of her stubbornness is agonizing. ‘How’re you doing?’

‘Been worse,’ he grunts, which she’s pretty sure is a lie. She’s heard all the tales of his professional disasters, and none of them had ended this badly. ‘You okay?’

‘Been worse,’ she echoes, which causes him to make a sound that’s half-way between a snort and a laugh. ‘The bullet didn’t do any major damage. I’ll be slinged up for a while, but I’ll be fine.’ She doesn’t tell him what else the doctors had discovered during her hospital stay, figuring that she’ll probably leave that revelation for a time when his memory won’t get muddled up by narcotics. ‘You scared me, Dave,’ she says softly, as much an admission to herself as it is to him. ‘You scared the ever-living crap out of me. I didn’t know…’ If you were dead or alive; the words she can’t bring herself to say.

‘Likewise,’ he says.

Even though her shoulder still throbs, she lets her fingers grasp his again, and she stays until they kick her out.

*          *          *

_Two weeks later._

They’re both still on leave, the team having made up for their absence by requisitioning a pair of agents, whom, in Morgan’s words, “ain’t got nothing on you guys.” Even still, things were hectic.

After she’d revealed her pregnancy to Rossi, he had insisted on turning one of his spare rooms into a nursery, despite the fact that he had still been on antibiotics at the time, and was in no condition to be involved in any DIY.

Now, the room is stripped of all furniture, but they haven’t gotten around to painting the walls, or putting a crib together. Privately, she thinks they should get Morgan in, their resident renovator, but she knows that Dave wouldn’t take well to letting another Alpha-male take over the proceedings. She thinks it’s a good sign – that he’ll take a proactive stance in bringing up his child.

He’d taken the news better than she’d expecting, especially considering the outcome of their last case. Eric Briscoe had weighed heavily on their souls, but on his most of all.

They’re lying on the sofa in his living room, positioned in such a way that their still-healing wounds are exacerbated as little as possible. His hand palms her stomach.

‘Alfonso?’ he suggests. She knows he’s joking, but takes the bait anyway.

‘Maybe something a little less Italian,’ she says, leaning into him. ‘How about Rodriguez?’ She rolls her R’s appropriately, eliciting a chuckle from him. ‘Or,’ she adds, with a tone that makes it clear she’s still joking, ‘We could name it after one of the team. Spencer…Penelope.’

‘Erin,’ he cuts in. After she’s finished laughing, he adds, a little more seriously, ‘I think we’ve got a while to figure it out. In the meantime, though…’ He lets his hand slide a little further up her abdomen.

She grins.

‘David Rossi.’ She turns in his arms, ignoring the tiny sparks of pain that should through her shoulder. ‘I like the way you think.’


End file.
